Tease(50)

I shake my head, but I can’t stop my mind from spinning.

“Doesn’t matter,” Natalie says. “You were charged as a minor.”

“I know, but—”

“It only matters when the charges were filed, when the prosecution claims the crimes were committed,” she clarifies. Right, I think she told us all this before. I don’t know. I can’t keep any of this straight.

Mom’s still leaned back in her chair. “Would this go on Sara’s permanent record?”

I finally turn toward her, furious. “What are you saying? You want me to tell them I’m guilty? I didn’t kill her! I didn’t do anything wrong—everyone hated her, everyone was mean to her all the time! And even if they weren’t, she was the one hooking up with everyone! She’s the one with the problem!”

Mom shakes her head. “Sara, you did do something wrong. You did a lot of wrong things, don’t you see that? And no one’s charging you with murder.”

I jump out of my chair, shoving back from the table so hard it almost topples over. “I knew it! You send me here by myself all summer, you make me feel like you can’t even be bothered with any of this, and all along you think I’m guilty!”

“I didn’t say that, honey, sit down—” She reaches her hand out but I jerk away.

“No! Fuck this!” I shout. I’m so hot I can’t breathe. I want to pick up the whole table and throw it across the room, or run through the wall, or just—I just—I want more air, there’s no air in here, I’m gasping and sweating and I could kill her right now. My throat seizes up and my eyes are stinging.

But I am not crying.

I am leaving, I’m out the door and down the hall. And I’m shaking, but I’m on the elevator, I’m outside, I’m sweating more because it’s one of those awful September days that feel like July and the humidity makes it impossible to breathe out here, either, but at least I can walk, at least there’s a sidewalk around the hideous office park, at least there’s a gas station right over there, and I have my cell phone, and I’m getting his number, I’m calling him, I’m getting a ride because I came here with Mom and there is no way I’m getting in that car with that woman ever again.

Carmichael doesn’t ask any questions. He seems kinda freaked when he finds me under the awning in front of the Texaco, but he’s quiet as he reaches over and opens the passenger door of his dad’s truck.

I climb in and I know I should just start apologizing, especially for him having to borrow the truck. But I’m too drained to say anything at all. I see him glancing over at me every few seconds. I keep my eyes forward, hoping he can’t see how red they are.

I don’t know what Carmichael is doing, hanging out with me. He still talks to me at school, even though no one else does. Sometimes we have coffee on the weekends, though he makes me go to the independent place downtown, saying that Starbucks is too corporate. We don’t have the same lunch period, but I prefer to eat in my car anyway. The days that I feel like eating, that is. He’s a friend. He’s a better friend than I deserve, and he’s the only person left I can call.

But after this, I swear, I won’t ask him for anything else, ever again. He’s a nice guy. He doesn’t deserve this. No one does. Maybe not even me.

Finally he turns on the radio, flipping around until he finds a country station. I think he’s trying to make me laugh, like, Ha ha, you don’t listen to country, isn’t this stupid. But it’s a sad song, it’s not funny. The lyrics are about not being able to forgive someone, but not being able to leave, and I just wish I couldn’t relate.

The song swells and I feel a wave of nausea come over me. I have to say something, I’m gonna say something. For once, I can hear the words that are about to come out of my mouth, and it makes me sick.

“Why do you—I mean, like, why do you hang out with me?” I ask Carmichael. By the end of the sentence my voice is a rasp, and I have to swallow hard.

“Why?” he says, turning down the radio. “Why wouldn’t I?”

I just look over at him with one eyebrow raised. Well, with both raised. I don’t have Brielle’s one-eyebrow talent.

But anyway, he knows damn well why.

“All that stuff . . .” He waves a hand in the air like he’s clearing it, and for a second I think of Brielle again, how she always does that. Did that. I don’t know anymore. But either way, Carmichael does it differently—with him it’s not like he’s trying to erase something, and more like he’s gathering it all up.

He takes a deep breath, and a painful minute passes as he stares out the windshield, watching the road, but then he goes on. “I know what everyone’s saying,” he says. “But sometimes what everyone says isn’t the whole story.”

“No,” I say quietly. “It’s not.”

“And freshman year, when everyone decided I was a terrorist over one made-up story, you never called me Bomb Boy,” he says.

I look up at him, surprised. “I didn’t?” I say. I thought I did—it definitely seems like something Brielle and I would have done. But maybe back in ninth grade we were . . . different.

“You don’t remember? Well, I do,” Carmichael says. “And then I saw you at summer school, and with your brothers, and now that we’ve hung out, I don’t know. You’re not mean to me. Plus, you’re weird.” He smiles, but I can’t return it.